Part 4 (1/2)
”So kind, so kind,” the sisters chorused.
The Pyms were acquainted with everyone who lived in and around Finch and were known for their generosity, so I expected to fill the Range Rover to the roof with gingerbread. I was puzzled, therefore, when Nicholas returned from the kitchen carrying only six boxes.
”Shall we come back for the rest?” I asked hesitantly.
Ruth smiled. ”We wouldn't dream of . . .”
”. . . imposing on you further.” Louise fell silent, her bright eyes gleaming like polished river stones.
Nicholas took the hint. ”I'm afraid that Lori and I must run or we'll be late for Aunt Lilian's lunch-which you've spoilt, dear ladies, in a most delightful way. Your marvelous eclairs have rendered me incapable of doing justice to my aunt's cooking.”
The Pyms' softly wrinkled cheeks grew pink with pleasure, and I gave Nicholas an admiring glance. He was as good with elderly spinsters as he was with nearly-two-year-old boys. After we said our good-byes to Ruth and Louise, I offered him a lift back to the vicarage.
”Or would you prefer to walk off those marvelous eclairs?” I added, opening the gate.
”I'd appreciate a lift, thank you,” he answered. ”I believe I've had enough fresh air for one morning. My London lungs aren't quite sure what to do with it.”
A ping sounded on my internal radar, and I watched Nicholas closely as he loaded the boxes of gingerbread into the Range Rover's rear compartment. I recalled his sudden stillness when the subject of the murder had arisen and the single, telling question he had asked. Had he happened on the Pyms by accident? Or had he insinuated himself into their home with a clear intent in mind?
”Nicholas,” I said, closing the rear door, ”was it really the fresh air that brought you here?”
”It might have been.” He leaned back against the Rover. ”You must admit that it's a plausible excuse.”
I frowned. ”An excuse for what?”
”I should've thought it was obvious.” The gold flecks in his eyes glittered as he inclined his head toward me. ”Since you and I came here for precisely the same reason.”
Chapter 7.
My internal radar started clanging, but I wasn't ready to show my hand just yet.
”What reason would that be?” I inquired politely.
Nicholas eyed me skeptically, then launched into a pa.s.sable imitation of my American accent. ”Why, Miss Pym, I can't tell you how shocked I was to hear about the murder. Isn't it strange, Miss Pym, that no one seems to know a thing about the murder?” He shook his head as if gravely disappointed. ”If you were a barrister, you'd be admonished for leading the witnesses.”
The mimicry was carried out so good-naturedly that I couldn't take offense.
”Okay,” I admitted. ”I came here to pick the Pyms' brains. I'm curious about Mrs. Hooper's death. Aren't you?”
”As I said, we both came here for the same reason.” Nicholas checked his watch. ”We're not due at the vicarage for a half hour, and I think my lungs could stand another liter or two of untainted oxygen. Let's stretch our legs.”
A fitful breeze toyed with his long hair as we stepped away from the Rover. The hedgerows lining the narrow lane were heavy with morning dew, so we walked side by side down the middle of the road. There was no need to keep an eye out for traffic. The lane was so seldom used that we could have sun-bathed on the faded center line.
While we walked, Nicholas talked. He told me that the inquest had done little more than confirm what his aunt and uncle-and everyone else in Finch-already knew: Mrs. Hooper had been struck on the head with a blunt instrument by a person or persons unknown between the hours of five and nine in the morning on Thursday, March 22.
She'd evidently been killed where she'd been found, in the front parlor of Crabtree Cottage. The cottage's doors and windows had been unlocked, but the police had found no evidence of theft. Finally, and perhaps most predictably, no locals had been on hand to offer testimony, apart from Peggy Taxman, who'd described finding the body.
”Mrs. Taxman had come to collect the rent, apparently,” said Nicholas. ”She and Mrs. Hooper knew each other, back in Birmingham, before Mrs. Taxman came to live in Finch.”
”She sounds like the kind of friend Peggy Taxman would have,” I commented dryly.
”Mrs. Taxman is an imposing woman,” Nicholas acknowledged.
”She's terrifying.” I held up a cautioning finger. ”If she so much as mentions the church fete, run the other way or you'll find yourself in charge of the pony rides.”
”I see,” said Nicholas, grinning, ”an organizer. There's one in every village. Thanks for the warning.”
”Don't mention it,” I said, glad that, for once, I'd made him smile instead of the other way around.
The inquest's impact on the vicar was, alas, no laughing matter. The proceeding's inconclusive conclusions had left Theodore Bunting so depressed that he'd spent the previous evening brooding in his library, and so distracted that he'd skipped over the third collect in the morning service.
”I'm concerned about my uncle,” Nicholas explained, ”and somewhat underfoot at the vicarage, so I thought I'd lend the police a hand. Or at least a pair of ears. When Aunt Lilian mentioned the Pyms, it occurred to me that they might provide a starting point.”
”They usually know what's what,” I agreed. ”And the police wouldn't have much luck questioning them.”
Nicholas smiled wryly. ”It takes a practiced ear to understand the Pyms.”
We walked on in silence while I weighed the pros and cons of asking Nicholas to join forces with me. He'd already displayed a willingness to share information, and he knew how to listen. He was comfortable with all sorts of people, and as the vicar's nephew, he'd fit neatly into the constellation of relations.h.i.+ps that formed the social fabric of the village. Moreover, I was comfortable with him. On the whole, I decided, he would make an admirable subst.i.tute for Emma.
”Nicholas,” I said, coming to a halt, ”I'm as worried about my friend Kit as you are about your uncle, and I've lost faith in the police. I didn't come here today out of idle curiosity. I want to find out who killed Pruneface Hooper.” I bowed my head, let my shoulders slump, and emitted a melodramatic sigh. ”The trouble is, my interrogation skills aren't what they used to be. I keep leading my witnesses.” I peeked up at Nicholas and saw his eyes curve into half-moons as yet another smile wreathed his face. ”I could use your help.”
”As I could yours,” he said. ”Four ears are far better than two.”
I wondered fleetingly what his ears looked like under those wavy curtains of hair, then turned to him and offered my hand. ”Partners?”
”Partners,” he repeated firmly.
”And may our next interview be more successful than our last,” I added.
As we shook hands, I noticed the strength of his grip and the calloused ridge of skin that ran along the outside of his palm. If our inquiries roused any rabid dogs, I told myself, it would be comforting to have a self-defense expert in my corner.
With a scant ten minutes left before our lunch date at the vicarage, we made our way back to the Rover and took off for the village. We were nearly through the dangerous bend that curved around the Pyms' house when Nicholas spoke.
”I don't know that I agree with you about our first interview,” he said. ”I found it extremely informative.”
”You did?” I said. ”The Pyms didn't tell us anything new, unless you count the bit about the hermit's wake.”
”Funny . . .” Nicholas pursed his lips meditatively. ”I was under the impression that they'd provided us with a list of suspects.”
I glanced at him so sharply that he had to catch hold of the steering wheel to keep me from swerving off the road.
”Did I miss something?” I asked, resuming control of the car. ”When did they give us a list of suspects?”
”The gilded gingerbread.” Nicholas looked over his shoulder toward the rear compartment. ”There are only six boxes for the entire village. A somewhat inadequate supply, don't you agree? And not one is addressed to the vicarage. A curious omission, at Eastertide.”